Gone: Emmaleene Leahy

Plunged into sudden blackness. Electricity gone. Heart pounded and pumped with panic until you’d appear. Your shake was the rattle of a matchbox.

Us, soothed by the first spark of your strike and the whispery hiss of ignition. Shhh it’s ok. You flitted from room to room, impervious to the darkness, a floating face illuminated by the orange glow.

The candle flickered indistinct shapes over the room. Your shadow danced behind you as you’d stand still, staring at the flame, delicately pinching the burnt up shrivel until the flare dwindled away.

Now, you are gone.

I burned my fingertips and dropped it all.

The box is upended, contents discarded on the floor, a tangle of matches. All unlit except for one.

There’s a sharp smell of sulphur. The stalk of the burning head is knotted in amongst the rest, leaning on some, holding up others. As the fire sizzles to life it begins the slow crawl. It is only a matter of time before the rest catch light. The whole little bundle will burn and then blaze with fury until it resigns itself to a crumbling pile of charcoal twigs.